Chapter 17
The next day Beth had to admit that regardless of the way he spent his nights, her husband was doing his duty during the day. He presented himself after lunch to escort her to the Delaneys and also provided her with a neatly written list of the more interesting intellectual events taking place in Town over the next few weeks.
Hannah More was scheduled to talk, and Maria Edgeworth. There was a presentation on the sculpture of the Renaissance and a lecture on the migration patterns of birds. As an indication that such events were not beyond the bounds of the haut ton there was a musical and literary entertainment under the patronage of the Marchioness of Salisbury and the Countess of Jersey.
"Perhaps I should set up as a patroness of the arts," she said.
"If you wish."
Beth searched his face for any change, for any hint that he had spent a night of passion with his mistress. There was none.
"If you don't object," he said as they left her room, "we could walk to Lauriston Street. It's not far and it's a pleasant day."
Beth was happy to agree but found it difficult to strike up a conversation. The obvious topic was the play the night before and she wouldn't touch that with a barge pole.
"No more news of a battle," she said in the end. It was an idiotic thing to say as the word would be all over Town in minutes when it arrived.
"Mad rumors. The news we're getting is four or five days old. Someone was spreading word that the allies are routed. Another that Napoleon is shot by his own men. Both are denied by the War Office."
"Is it possible it won't come to battle?"
"Not unless someone does shoot the Corsican. It seems mad that one man's overweening ambition can cause such destruction. So many lives...." He broke off and they walked a ways in silence. "We have this group of friends," he said at last. "We were all at Harrow together. Nicholas, Con, Francis, Hal, Dare.... There were twelve of us. Only ten are still alive. Hal's lost his arm—Damn the Corsican."
"Surely it isn't all Napoleon's fault," Beth pointed out. "Major Beaumont lost his arm in the Americas, and that war can't be laid at Bonaparte's door. Men, after all, don't seem to need much excuse for war."
He flashed her an irritated look but then gave a brief laugh and said, "Oh no. I'm not going to be entangled in a topic like that just now. I'm pleased you want to get to know the Delaneys," he said. "I think you'll like Eleanor, though she's not bookish. If you're wise you won't tangle in a battle of wits with Nicholas."
"He's a genius?" Beth queried skeptically.
"I don't know what he is. He never went up to university. Took this mad fit to travel then went to some strange places. Any meaningful conversation with him travels equally unpredictable roads. I once saw him reduce a parson to incoherence. I'm not actually sure," he said thoughtfully, "that he's a Christian."
"Good heavens."
Lucien looked at her in mock astonishment. "Have I shocked you? Drag your mind out of narrow, conformist paths, my dear."
Beth was shocked. She and Aunt Emma had questioned many things but never Christianity. She and Lucien had arrived at a neat, narrow house which at least did not look pagan.
"What is he, then?" asked Beth nervously.
Lucien just grinned and applied the door knocker.
An immensely proper butler answered the door and smiled. "Welcome, my lord. They are at home." Beth was somewhat reassured. This was not a house of disrepute.
"Good," said Lucien. "My dear, this is Hollygirt. Hollygirt, make known my wife, Lady Arden."
The butler bowed. "Honored to make your acquaintance, your ladyship."
It soon became clear formality at number eight, Lauriston Street, stopped with the butler. Lucien swept Beth along and into a large drawing room which had more the look of the senior girls' parlor at Miss Mallory's, except that most of the occupants were male.
Nicholas Delaney was sitting on the floor with two young men—one an amazingly handsome russet-haired specimen and one snub-nosed ginger—apparently playing with a large toy soldier. Another man, a fine-boned blond, was sitting at a table by the window writing. Hal Beaumont, Eleanor Delaney, and a noticeably pregnant young lady were sitting in a group being amused by a beautiful, amiable baby. A darkly poetic man was playing the piano. He looked up as they entered and swung into a creditable version of a fanfare of trumpets.
Everyone looked up and in an instant Beth was caught up in a whirlwind of welcomes, introductions, and questions. It was like a large and very strange family.
She was snared by Eleanor and cut out of the group. "You'll never remember who's who," said Eleanor, "so pay no attention. Come and meet Arabel instead. She has more manners than anyone else here."
Beth found herself on a sofa beside Hal Beaumont, meeting him for the first time since that extraordinary conversation in the rose garden. He smiled at her without constraint. "You're looking well, Elizabeth. I was sorry not to be at the wedding. Problems at my estate."
That had been his excuse. Beth saw he was keeping to his word; now she was married there was no hint of the warmth he had expressed just that once. "We missed you," she said and added, "I have to tell you that I prefer to be called Beth."
He looked intrigued but said, "Beth, then."
"And I'm Amy Lavering," said the girl holding the baby. "And this is Arabel. I hold her a lot in the hope she can teach my little one some decorum. My husband's Peter, the handsome one on the floor."
Beth looked over. Peter Lavering certainly was handsome but since Lucien had now joined that group, Beth felt she could debate the singular. She let it pass. "What are they doing?" she asked.
Eleanor explained. "Miles Cavanagh—he's the gingery one—brought that thing as a gift for Arabel. Entirely unsuitable for a girl, but Nicholas, of course, said there was no reason Arabel shouldn't grow up to be a soldier—horrid man. It doesn't work. Instead of marching it hurtles like the mail. It shot right off the table and broke its musket, so now it's restricted to the floor."
Someone released the switch and the rosy-cheeked grenadier shot forward about three feet and fell on its nose. Its feet gave a few pathetic little twitches. Arabel's attention was caught, and she gave a squeal and stretched for it.
Her father leapt to his feet and came to sweep her up. "No, no, little plum. Learn to resist wounded soldiers. They've been the ruin of many a fair maid." He grinned at Hal with no awkwardness about the injury at all, then smiled over the child's head at Beth. "Welcome. What form of insanity does your heart crave? Here we satisfy all."
Beth was a second too late to stop the betraying flicker of her eyes towards Lucien, and she saw it register on Nicholas Delaney though his expression never altered. "I don't know," she said hastily. "I think I like sanity."
He promptly popped the baby on her lap. "Talk to Arabel. She's the only sane one here."
Beth had never held a baby before. The youngest girls at Miss Mallory's had been seven. The baby at least was a professional and settled happily against her chest mouthing one of her own knuckles.
Beth looked at Eleanor. "What a lovely child."
For a moment Eleanor looked very serious. "Yes. We receive precious gifts from strange places." But then she smiled. "She's due for a feeding and her nap. If you'd care to come upstairs we could all take tea in civilized peace while I feed her."
Though the notion was startling, Beth agreed, as did Amy.
Eleanor took the baby and carried her over to her father who kissed her softly on the lips. "Sleep well, Plumkin." Arabel gave him a smile but turned straight back to her mother with a serious look. Clearly the demands of her stomach were beginning to wear down her manners.
Beth wondered if such a sweet nature was the cause of the devotion everyone showed the child or the result. She had no experience of family life, but she'd never imagined a father as warmly loving as Nicholas Delaney.
Her eyes sought Lucien's. He smiled. "Go and learn how it's done. I want a child just as charming and well-behaved as Arabel."
Beth raised her brows. "I thought you wanted an heir for Belcraven."
"No," he said, "that's my father. I want a string of little Arabels. Then," he added mischievously, "an heir for Belcraven."
Considering her virginity, Beth was finding this discussion in front of a roomful of strangers rather challenging. "What a shame," she said tartly, "men cannot carry and birth the children. We could share the load." There was a burst of laughter, and Beth took the chance to escape and catch up with Eleanor and Amy.
"Good for you," said Eleanor. "Men sometimes talk as if producing babies is as easy as making a loaf of bread. Ah, Hollygirt," she said as the butler appeared. "We'll have tea in my boudoir and then please see what the gentlemen want."
Beth spent an enjoyable hour drinking tea and chattering. The conversation was mostly of pregnancy and babies, but she didn't mind. Presumably she would come to that one day though at the moment she didn't quite see how. She wished she had the nerve to ask these two friendly and clearly happily married ladies for advice on husband management, most specifically how to make him want to seek her bed, but she didn't dare.
When it was time to leave Eleanor Delaney drew Beth in for a warm hug. "I'm glad you came. You must come again. It isn't normally quite so chaotic. Everyone is gathering in Town hoping to hear first news of the battle. Peter has a brother with the 42nd, and there's four of the Company over there. For some reason," she said with a smile, "they all gather here."
"It's... it's a very happy house."
"Yes," said Eleanor "it is. But it's happiness that's been worked for."
That was all she said and yet it was a message of sorts.
* * *
When the ladies left the room, Nicholas Delaney said, "Your attention, gentleman." The six men turned to look at him.
"Eleanor doesn't much care for talk of Deveril. Doesn't much care for me to be dabbling my fingers in mischief again, but we can't let such a man get away with anything."
There was a chorus of quiet agreement.
"I've looked into the situation. It's clear he has a lot more money this year than last. I have to assume that he somehow relieved Thérèse Bellaire of most of her swindled fortune, which warms my heart, but I can't say I care to see him prosper. For one thing, he's the sort of man who'll use money for evil."
"How are we going to get it off him?" asked the pianist, Lord Middlethorpe.
"I don't know, Francis. As far as I can tell he's not keeping it in any bank, nor has he made investments. My guess is he has it in gold in chests in his house."
Hal Beaumont grinned. "We're going to crack the ken?"
Nicholas Delaney frowned. "We are not. We are all respectable men here and besides, we have a member of parliament present."
The fine-boned blond turned back to his papers. "I'm deaf as a post," he said.
"So?" asked Hal.
"So," said Nicholas, "the first thing Deveril did on returning to England was to hire a squad of bullyboys. They guard him and the house pretty well. It's tempting to break in and steal the lot, but it would suit him to catch me in the act and haul me before the courts. I'm looking for a more subtle way to rearrange his fortune."
"I hear rumors," said Lord Middlethorpe, "that he's looking to use some of his money to buy a bride."
"All the more reason," said Nicholas Delaney, "to render him penniless. His tastes are too foul for even the street drabs of Saint Giles."
Stephen Ball, M.P., recovered the use of his ears. "He was implicated in the death of that girl a few months back. Body was found in the river. She'd been badly used. Just up from the country, as fresh and innocent as a lamb. Nothing ever came of the enquiries, though. No real evidence."
"Or carefully used money," said Lucien angrily. "God but the man's a nasty specimen."
"We'll sort him out," said Nicholas. "There's no hurry."
He wound up the soldier. With a whir the grenadier began to march, head turning first left then right. Everyone let out a cheer. Then, with a loud and ominous twang, the toy stopped dead.
Nicholas picked it up. "I hope that isn't an omen," he said.
* * *
Beth found that as soon as they returned to Belcraven House she was expected to drive in the park with the duchess. She had done this a few times before her marriage. It was, apparently, essential to see and be seen again now she was the marchioness.
Only she and the duchess were in the carriage which rolled slowly through the fashionable throng, and this was generally the case. The gentlemen rode, drove themselves in curricles and broughams, or strolled nearby, quizzing the beauties. The Belcraven carriage was frequently stopped for pleasant exchanges, and Beth recognized some of the people from the days before her wedding. She was warmly welcomed back to Town. She was beginning to feel just a little less of an outsider, and she couldn't help but realize that as the Marchioness of Arden she was now a person of importance.
She wished she felt it. She knew she would be happier with the simple, chaotic lifestyle of the Delaneys.
"How on earth do you remember who is who, Duchess?"
The duchess waved a hand and bowed at a rotund gentleman. "Sometimes one pretends. That was Sefton, by the way. People of significance tend to impress themselves on one's mind. Do you know," said the duchess, between more inclinations of the head and slight waves of the hand, "I think you should call me Maman as Lucien does."
Beth found the conventional notion disturbing. She had never had a mother, in any real sense. But then she realized she could think of the duchess as her mother with no trouble at all.
"I would be pleased to, Maman." she said, and the two women shared a warm smile. Then she saw Clarissa and her mother, accompanied by Lord Deveril. Clarissa waved to Beth like a drowning person, but the duchess gave the carriage only her slightest acknowledgement in passing.
"Is that young lady a friend?" she asked mildly.
"She was a pupil at Miss Mallory's. She called on me yesterday."
"I see. I do not much care for her family or the company she keeps, but I will not try to restrict your acquaintance. I would advise you, however, to have nothing to do with Lord Deveril."
"Willingly, Maman. Poor Clarissa, however, is going to have to marry him."
The duchess paused a moment. "That is unfortunate," she said.
"Very. I wish I could do something to help her." Beth hoped for some guidance or expression of support.
The duchess looked seriously at her. "Such marriages are not uncommon," she said with meaning. "Any family can experience difficulties, but in the case of the Greystones, the evil, I believe, is gaming. Without that so many people would not be brought low."
Beth discovered later that she had neatly been deflected from Clarissa's problem to the larger problems of Society.
* * *
Beth was inexorably drawn back into the mad social whirl and wondered when she would have the opportunity to visit the Delaneys again. She supposed Lucien went there, for the rigorous socializing seemed largely to be a female occupation. If he didn't, then perhaps he was spending all his time with the White Dove. Beth certainly saw little of him.
Two days after their visit to the Delaneys, Beth found herself alone with her husband as he was about to escort her and the duchess to a rout. He placed a finger under her chin, the better to study her face. "You are finding this hard, Beth," he said kindly. "This society life does not suit you at all. Just a few more weeks, then I promise you need never come to London unless you choose."
"And you, Lucien? Will you not come to Town again?"
He looked puzzled. "But I enjoy it, Beth."
"I suppose you do," she said.
She had thought perhaps this evening would be an opportunity to grow closer, but now she lost the urge to try. It would doubtless suit him very well to have her in the country bearing children while he conducted his debauches in Town with the White Dove. If, she thought bitterly, they ever progressed to the stage where bearing children became a possibility.
He frowned and looked as if he would question her, but then the duchess joined them and he changed the subject, relating an amusing anecdote. Beth couldn't help laughing. He could always make her laugh, but it never lessened the bitterness inside.
Over the evening, the chill in her manner eroded his good humor, and he spent less time with her, tried less to amuse her. Beth felt the loss like an aching void but could not change her behavior. It was amazing, she thought, how two people could have such a thorough falling-out without a word spoken in anger.
When she rose from her bed the next morning determined to turn a new leaf and try to win him back, he was, as usual, already out.
To distract herself from her unhappiness, Beth concentrated on Clarissa's problem. She tried to think of solutions but got nowhere. If she had money she could send the girl to a distant town or even to the Americas, if she would go. Did Clarissa have that kind of character?
If she had money she could offer it to the Greystones as a dowry, but that would solve nothing. They did not simply wish to marry Clarissa off; they wished to get the fee offered by Deveril. If they were paid to forego that marriage they would find another similar.
Besides, Beth had virtually no money. She had the guineas Miss Mallory had given her, and Lucien had arranged pin money for her. But all the accounts for the house, her clothes, and such like were settled by the de Vaux man of business.
If nothing better occurred, Beth could help Clarissa to return to Miss Mallory's, but that would be the first place her parents would look. Beth was not even sure Miss Mallory would conceal the girl from them. Aunt Emma always had to balance her principles against business sense.
As she was sitting in her boudoir that afternoon, taking tea and worrying about the problem, Lucien came to join her. It was so unusual an event these days that she felt panicked and quite unable to take advantage of the situation. She rushed straight at the subject on her mind.
"Did I tell you one of the girls from Miss Mallory's visited me last week?" she chattered. "Clarissa Greystone. Her parents are selling her to an unpleasant husband. She expects an offer any day."
The marquess raised a brow. "With anticipation?" he queried, obviously not outraged by the affair.
"No. With trepidation."
"If he is not to her taste, she would be well-advised to reject her suitor unless she puts money before other considerations."
"Her parents do."
"Yes, I hear Greystone's rolled up," he said off-handedly.
Beth wondered why he had come, if it was of significance. An awkward silence was growing, and so she picked up the topic, hoping for some worldly wisdom. "It seems a shame for the girl to be sacrificed for her family's sake."
He shrugged. "For her sake, too, surely. If the money's all gone, she'll end up as a governess if she's lucky. Marriage is preferable to that."
This was pragmatic and possibly true. It irritated Beth. "There should be some better way. No woman should be so forced—"
She broke off as he rose angrily to his feet. "I wondered why you were so obsessed by this silly chit. I am sorry, my lady, I have no mind to sit and have guilt heaped on my head again."
With that he walked sway out of the room.
Beth sat stunned.
Was that what he thought? That she was cold to him because she still harbored a grievance about her marriage? In one sense it was true—she would never feel comfortable with the way she had been forced to act against her will. But any tendency to blame Lucien had died weeks ago.
She saw how destructive her present behavior was. Nothing was less likely to detach the marquess from his mistress than being refused his wife's marriage bed and given only cold words. Her thought processes were even more tangled than poor Laura Montreville's. Laura at least had a clear line of thought, no matter how unrealistic. Beth could not persuade herself that she had been operating on logic at all, which was very galling for someone who prided herself upon her intellect. Looked at objectively, her husband had been kind and considerate throughout. If he could not love her, there was no blame in that. He was willing to be as loving as was in his power.
She forced herself to acknowledge that she had been motivated by that base emotion, jealousy. Jealousy because she wanted more than kindness, more than friendship. She wanted him to return her love.
She loved him.
Beth took a deep steadying breath. How foolish, how very foolish to have succumbed, and how useless to expect him to reciprocate. What on earth was she to do?
If she were free, Beth would have put herself as far away from the marquess as possible. What other sane course was there for a woman besotted by a man who merely found her bearable? That choice was not available. The only other thing to do was to fight. Impossible as it might seem she must gamble that she could one day gain his love, and undoubtedly the first step to that was the consummation of the marriage. The unnaturalness of their lives and her own anxiety and longings hung like the sword of Damocles over them.
Being a logical woman, Beth resolved to sort this all out in the straightforward way, in writing.
It was not quite as easy as she had hoped. One problem was that she felt it necessary to be discreet in case the note should be read by a third party. Another was deciding quite how much she was willing to say. She could not even think how to start it. My lord? My Lord Marquess? Lucien?
Eventually she wrote, My dear husband. That at least addressed the point in question.
At your convenience, she wrote at last, I would wish to speak to you in my bedroom on a matter of importance. Postponing matters in the hope of change in me seems unlikely to lead to success. Perhaps the elimination of anxiety in that respect would serve us better.
There. That seemed clear enough, and if he were in any doubt, the word bedroom should eliminate it. She signed it, Beth folded it, and sealed it thoroughly, stamping the wax with the de Vaux arms.
Then she felt a strong urge to tear it into tiny pieces and dispose of it somewhere.
She would not let herself play the coward at this point, however. She left the note on his shaving stand in his dressing room. It was only later she was informed he would not be in for dinner that evening but was engaged with friends.
Friends? What friends? Beth fought and won a battle with raging jealousy. There was no reason for him not to be at the Delaneys. She pleaded tiredness and canceled all her own engagements so as to be at hand when he finally read the note.
She could not help but be disappointed that he was out of the house indefinitely. Too late she knew she could have chosen her moment more carefully, but what was done was done. She had no intention of trying to retrieve her letter.
She prepared for bed that night with care and in a state of nervous anticipation, wishing she could ask Hughes whether her husband had been in the house since the afternoon and whether he had read the note.
Would he come?
How late would he be?
If she fell asleep would he just go away?
Despite her efforts, she fell asleep and had no way of knowing whether he had come or not.
When she woke the next morning she was the victim of sick anxiety. How was she to stand another day of waiting? Would he come to her to discuss the matter in broad daylight? That seemed horrible to Beth, so detached and coldblooded, when she wanted to regain the passion she had so briefly known.
Beth had no need of pretense to appear to be under the weather. She breakfasted in her room, waiting for the tap on the door which might signal a visit from her husband. At midday she discovered he had returned home in the early hours, slept, breakfasted, and gone out. He must, at least, have got her note by now. What, oh what, had been his reaction, and what was she to read into the fact that he had not come to speak with her?
Was it of such small significance to him?
Perhaps, Beth thought bitterly, she should not have said, "At your convenience."
She had to escape from the house, and so she went for a long walk accompanied by her maid. She attempted once or twice to strike up a conversation with the woman, but Redcliff, though obviously fond of her mistress, was determined to keep to her place and never encouraged familiarities.
They were nearly home again when a young man hurried over to them. "Your ladyship," he said.
Redcliff moved forward as if to drive him off but, with astonishment, Beth recognized Clarissa in boy's clothing and stopped the maid.
"What is it, Charles?" she asked, hoping the girl had the wits to go along.
Clarissa looked at the end of her tether, but she tried. "I need to speak to you," she whispered. "I have run away from home."
"Oh, lord," muttered Beth, "why now?" But Clarissa was so distraught it was unthinkable to abandon her. The only possibility was to take the maid into their confidence. Beth explained the situation in brief and asked the maid to keep the secret.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Redcliff. "It isn't right, milady."
"Right or not, I intend to help Clarissa," said Beth firmly.
The maid clucked in disapproval but reluctantly agreed to be an accomplice.
"We cannot stand in the street like this," said Beth. "The question is, Redcliff, can we get Miss Greystone into the house without her being seen? Her parents will soon set up a hue and cry."
The maid's face was set in lines of rigid disapproval, but she said, "There is a side door, my lady, for the coal deliveries, and a back stairs up from there. If it is unlocked we could probably get to your rooms without being seen."
"Very well," said Beth. "Lead on."
Belcraven House stood detached from the other nearby houses, but there was only a narrow passage down the side, wide enough for a cart. Along that passage was the doorway. It proved to be unlocked.
The door and floor were sooty, and all three ladies eased their way carefully through the small hall and up the narrow, bare-wood staircase. Eventually, the maid led them through a green baize door into the sudden opulence of the corridor off which the bedrooms opened. Beth wondered how many of those bleak little staircases there were to enable the servants to care for the house without intruding in the lives of their employers.
Once in the boudoir Clarissa pulled off the old-fashioned tricorne she wore and tossed it into a corner. She was pale and close to hysterics. "Oh Beth! Lord Deveril came today to offer for me!"
"Well, really, Clarissa," said Beth impatiently, for she knew they were in a pickle, "could you have not appeared to comply? I haven't had time to make any plans."
"I did," wailed the girl, bursting into tears. She pulled at her loose cravat and used the ends to wipe her eyes. "And then... and then my mother left us! He... he kissed me!"
Beth looked at the girl with appalled commiseration.
"I threw up my breakfast over him," added Clarissa, not without a touch of satisfaction.
"You didn't!" Beth gasped and began to laugh. "Oh Clarissa. What happened then?"
"Everyone was dreadfully angry," the girl sniffed, though there was an echo of Beth's amusement in her eyes. "My mother tried to say I was unwell but... but he looked at me so hatefully." She was making a mangled wreck of her neckcloth. "Then when he'd gone she... she beat me and locked me in my brother's room. My room doesn't have a lock."
"She beat you!"
"She said she would beat me harder if I did such a thing again, but truly I couldn't help it!" The girl's twisting had worked the neckcloth free and now she pulled at it with her whitened fingers. "His mouth tastes like the midden, and he terrifies me!"
Beth gathered the girl into her arms. "I can believe that, my dear. But how did you escape? Did your brother help you?"
"Simon?" said Clarissa incredulously. "No, he's off at Oxford, and anyway, he thinks it a famous thing just as long as his comfort is not disturbed. I took some of his old clothes and climbed out of the window."
Beth looked at the girl with new respect. "Good heavens. Was that not very dangerous?"
Clarissa shrugged. She looked down with distaste at the damp and tortured rag in her hand and dropped it on a chair. "It was only the first floor, and there's a high wall by his window. I got onto that and sort of wriggled my way along to a shed, then to the ground. But you can see I couldn't have done it in a gown," she said with a blush. It was obvious that the girl felt her boy's clothes were the most heinous aspect of it all.
"You must change straightaway," said Beth and led her into the dressing room. There Redcliff produced a shift and one of Beth's old gowns, a plain blue muslin. Clarissa changed with alacrity. The gown was a trifle long but otherwise an adequate fit.
"That feels so much better," said Clarissa with a wan smile. "You have no idea how horrible it was to be standing in the square waiting for you. I was certain everyone knew I was a woman and was looking at my legs."
"But what are we to do?" asked Beth. "Your parents will hunt for you. They will be concerned."
"No, they won't," said Clarissa stonily. "Except about Lord Deveril's money."
"I can't keep you here, Clarissa. The servants will be sure to find out. Do you have any friends who would hide you?"
Clarissa shook her head, beginning to look frightened again. "Are you going to send me back?"
Beth hugged the poor girl. "Never. But I may not be able to prevent them taking you."
"Could I not hide here?" asked Clarissa desperately. "No one except your maid saw us come in. It's a very large house."
Beth had little choice. She simply could not throw Clarissa out. "Perhaps for a little while," she said.
She turned to the maid, who was still the picture of disapproval. "Where could Miss Greystone hide and not be detected by the servants, Redcliff?"
"It's not proper, milady," protested the older woman.
"Never mind that. Where? The attics? The cellars?"
"No, milady. The servants rooms are up under the roof, some of them. And the walls are thin. If she made a move it'd be heard. And the cellars have the stores in them. There's people in and out every minute."
"Well, where then? As Clarissa says, it's an enormous house. There must be somewhere."
Redcliff's mouth became even tighter, but she answered in the end. "She'll have to go in one of the spare bedrooms, if anywhere. The one next door to your boudoir is empty."
For some reason, hiding Clarissa in a guest room seemed much more shocking than concealing her in the cellars, but the maid was doubtless correct.
"Very well," said Beth. She took Clarissa to the bedroom which housed her court dress. With a grin, she twitched aside the covers. Clarissa gasped. "It's beautiful."
"I suppose so, but I'm not looking forward to wearing it."
"I haven't been presented," said Clarissa wistfully. "I'd like it, I think."
"Do you really have a taste for such things, Clarissa?"
The girl smiled. "I don't think I have a noble mind like you. I like fine clothes, and balls and flirting with young men. I like fireworks and illuminations and masquerades. Now, I suppose the best I can hope for is to be a governess or a schoolmistress. I loathe Lord Deveril," she said bitterly. "This is all his fault."
Beth could have retorted that it was the fault of Clarissa's father's addiction to gaming, but there seemed no point and she had no objection to Deveril receiving all the opprobrium. She left Clarissa with Self-Control to pass the time and strict instructions not to make any noise. As she returned to her apartments, however, Beth couldn't help reflecting on the difference in their tastes. What a shame Clarissa hadn't been the duke's daughter.
The very thought made her hands clench. She wouldn't go back to Miss Mallory's now for all the tea in China. Never see Lucien again? Truly, she feared she would die.
Back in her dressing room, she gathered up the clothing Clarissa had taken off. "What are we to do with this, Redcliff?" she asked.
"Give it to me, my lady," said the older woman with resignation. "I'll stash it somewhere below stairs. I don't know what the marquess will have to say when he finds out."
"You are not to tell him," said Beth sharply.
"I know that," said the woman, "but you better do so, milady. He can't harbor a fugitive in his father's house without knowing of it."
When she left with the bundle under her cloak, neither of them remembered the tricorne and the crumpled cravat still lying in the boudoir.